


All those truths (some not so universally acknowledged)

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Explicit Consent, F/F, Gender disobedience, Genderfluid Character, Hijinks & Shenanigans, I want to read about my wife, Idiots in Love, Pride and Prejudice References, Regency Era, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 16:44:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20877431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: In which Aziraphale is very much an early Jane Austen scholar, Crowley is intrigued and furniture is utterly destroyed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadHatter13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadHatter13/gifts).

Crowley was asleep under a heap of blankets, curled around an old linen slip that she’d liberated from a clothesline some years earlier when there was a sound like a carriage crashing into a stone wall. Her entire house shook like a leaf in the wind.

“CROWLEY!” demanded a voice from somewhere below, but she was still up to her ears in half-formed memories of her dreams to be able to think about who was talking. And then the realization that it was a supernatural presence descended on her like a storm.

Had the Devil decided to pay her a visit?

“CROWLEY!” the voice demanded again, louder and more insistent.

She changed from her snake-form into her human one, miracling on a morning dress of someone in full mourning and stumbled towards the stairs with her heart in her throat. Her head was still swimming with sleep and she made no attempt to tame the wild curls into something even approaching a proper hairstyle.

Besides, Hell preferred that its demons looked messy.

Crowley’s insistence on being clean and groomed was something that they considered to be deeply strange and a clear sign of her having stayed on Earth for too long.

She stood at the top of the stairs and stuck out her tongue, smelling the air.

Oh.

An angel, then.

By the sound of it, the one that was outside was definitely a being of divine rage.

Why had an angel decided to pay her a visit in the year of our Lord 1813?

Perhaps Heaven had finally decided to deal with her demonic ways more directly?

Crowley made her way down the stairs as her hair wove itself into a chignon with the big curls framing the face as she opened the locks on the entryway door. If she was going to die today, she was going to die looking stylish.

“CROWLEY HAVE YOU READ THIS?!” Aziraphale shouted, her face pressed against the glass window. “CROWLEY YOU HAVE TO GET UP!”

Oh.

Oh, thank Someone.

Crowley wrenched open the door to see an ecstatic Aziraphale, holding a brand-new book close to her chest, then shoving it right into Crowley’s hands before she could even greet Aziraphale properly.

“No,” Crowley managed, taking in the fact that Aziraphale was wearing a very sensible dress and a straw bonnet, which was decorated with a few feathers and a nice cream ribbon. She looked almost offensively good. “You know that I don’t-“

“Not yet, then!” Aziraphale blurted out. “Crowley, it has this scene that when the young ladies will finish reading it, will cause them to race across fields on horseback to go to their friends’ houses to ask if they have already read that certain scene.”

“So, what you are telling me is that these girls will steal horses and disobey their families because of this book?” Crowley looked down at it. “Because of paper and ink?”

“Because of love,” Aziraphale said, wiggling so much that she was practically vibrating. “And because sometimes you have got to tell arrogant rich boys what is on your mind.”

“That is a good point,” Crowley said, looking at what was to her a pile of paper. “Might give it a try, then.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, a tender look in her eyes. “Would you?”

“Alright then,” Crowley said, softening. “But you’ll owe me lunch.”

Aziraphale smiled brightly, almost glowing with joy.

“You know,” she said so furtively that Crowley found herself leaning towards the angel. “I was one of the lucky ones that read the manuscript, and let me tell you the stack of notes I made was quite something.”

Aziraphale stuck her hand inside the bag that she’d been carrying, holding a thick wad of paper. Crowley read ‘ABSOLUTELY STUPEDOUS’ upside down as Aziraphale presented her with all those papers.

Crowley patted the book in her hand, feeling oddly tempted. But that was not how this worked at all, did it. She was the one that did the tempting.

This was just…a favor of sorts.

“Do let me know when you reach that part, dear,” Aziraphale said, already waving goodbye. “You can’t miss it.”

Crowley found herself nodding and closing the door before cracking the thing open and collapsing on her enormous bed. If this book was going to be the catalyst of various humans making heaps of trouble later on, it was better to know what was going on.

She read the first line and grinned.


	2. Chapter 2

The ball held at the local manor was crowded, but in the way that a very good modern ice cream shop may be crowded on a hot summer afternoon. Whist was being played in various side rooms by delighted older ladies as rakes and clergymen and local wealthy newcomers danced with the local girls. Expensive fabric rustled and the young lady at the pianoforte was having the time of her life as the autumn storm raged outside.

Aziraphale was on her way to sit down where the spinsters were either flirting with each other or plotting a murder. Crowley followed behind her, looking around the room from behind her shaded glasses. Aziraphale’s gown was a very proper one in pale blue, if low cut. Crowley looked like she could destroy a person’s reputation with a smile.

When most people looked at Aziraphale, they either saw a woman that was extremely married or not married at all and never would be. Both provided a certain amount of oversight and allowances. Men would usually leave her alone, for one, since she was not a part of their family nor someone they could court or ruin.

As Aziraphale walked, torn hems repaired themselves and gained an additional golden leaf embroidery. Torn muscles mended themselves and slippers remained whole instead of getting torn to shreds after a few dances. As Crowley walked a man lit a lantern which backlit a very handsome young lieutenant, which inspired at least five young ladies to make plans to steal their brother’s trousers and names and then promptly run away to sea.

The evening wore on as Aziraphale’s hand fluttered as she spoke with the spinsters about several wonderful novels they had all read in the last year or so. Crowley played fast-paced and scandalously romantic songs on the pianoforte with great relish.

At some point Aziraphale sat down on the best chair in the whole room, ice clinking in her glass as she sipped her drink. Before you knew it, she was surrounded with young, shy looking wallflowers and stylish gentlemen of the sort that did not want to be pushed into financially advantageous marriages with persons they did not love or desire for reasons that they did not speak much about. They listened to Aziraphale as she spoke to them in low tones with understanding eyes. They confided in her as Crowley kept a watchful eye over them all.

“May I tempt you to dance?” Crowley asked later on, circling Aziraphale where she stood watching the dancers and making sure not to step on her slippers.

Aziraphale looked at the swirl of young couples, many of which were overcome with feelings as they touched their crush’s hands, flashes of raw love emitting from them at regular intervals. Others were busy valiantly stomping on an annoying suitor’s feet with every step.

“Just something simple,” Crowley insisted, seeing the spark of rebelliousness in Aziraphale’s eyes. “A country dance.”

“There are thousands of variations of those,” Aziraphale began, taking Crowley’s hand anyway. “But alright then.”

The grin on Crowley’s face was so bright no light in all of Heaven could ever compare to it. Aziraphale let herself be pulled to the dancefloor, where people scrambled away to give them room. There were a few puzzled looks, but mostly the young people and a few older ones were too delighted with the idea of two ladies dancing together to do anything but grin at them.

There were twirls, and a distinct pleasure in drawing each other closer than they had been in a few thousand years. They sank into the familiarity of casual touches that had been in fashion a few centuries before, hands gripping each other and moving together as they had done nothing else in their lives. Which, of course, was true.

Crowley was quite delighted by the view, as Aziraphale focused on leading and held Crowley’s waist with an ease that was horribly distracting. The makeup that Aziraphale wore was nothing more than a hint or rouge, her curls the same as they’d always been. But now there were sapphires around her neck and the smell of old books was waging a war with her lavender soap.

When the dance was over, Crowley did not let go of the angel but looped her arm though hers in a companionable manner. The blush on Aziraphale’s face had overtaken the color of the rouge.

They then retired to an abandoned drawing room, making themselves comfortable on the shabby and well-loved settee. Crowley let herself sink into the cushions, opening a bottle of very well-preserved Madeira that she’d stolen from the kitchens and poured a generous amount into two crystal glasses.

The sound of dancing and music could still be heard, but it was at a good distance so that they could hear themselves think. And besides, no one would wonder much about two middle aged ladies disappearing for a while in the middle of a ball. Perhaps they’d wanted to indulge in some snuff, adjust their gowns privately or have a nice conversation about new dress styles these days.

Crowley patted the ribbons decorating her magnificent and infinitely complicated hairstyle, all piled up in endless curls and plaits. It was the sort of thing that would usually require hours of work by a skilled maid or a family member with a passion for hairdressing instead of a thoughtful miracle.

Aziraphale took a sip of her wine, looking as pleased as a cat who has discovered a bowl full of cream on the kitchen floor. She ate the cheese-topped biscuits someone had forgotten on the side table, wiggling in place as she chewed, making sounds that were truly indecent.

Crowley stretched as much as the corset would allow, thinking of the quiet hours ahead. The air would grow cold and Aziraphale might wrap around herself one of those big blanket-things that the ladies liked to have on their shoulders.

Maybe they’d have some mulled wine…

Crowley raised her arm to wrap it around Aziraphale’s shoulders.

But she did not get any further than that, because Aziraphale’s eyes went wide and her body utterly still, nails digging into the armrest. For the briefest of moments, her eyes glowed golden in the softly lit room.

Crowley tensed and stood up, looking around the room to see if there was any kind of other angelic or demonic presence anywhere near their location. The wine in her glass swirled as Crowley paced the room, looking out the windows and listening at the door.

She even stuck her tongue out to smell the air, just in case.

But Aziraphale did not look up towards the sky. Nor made any more to get ready to smite any demons or try to hide Crowley beneath her skirts in case an angel had decided to pop down for a visit.

Instead she put down her glass and pushed Crowley against one of the walls, pressing her body as closely as it could possibly be to Crowley’s own form.

This was not how Crowley had thought the evening would be spent, but she was not complaining. She miracled her glass away, so that no wine would even come close to staining their dresses.

“Ngk,” Crowley said as Aziraphale’s hands wrapped around her waist and she got a spectacular view of Aziraphale’s chest. It was those corsets, pushing everything up and then making low-cut evening dresses so fashionable that even an angel so out of touch as Aziraphale would wear one…

“Hush” Aziraphale demanded, her fingers caressing the fine hair on the back of Crowley’s neck and resting her chin on her shoulder. “I’m listening to what is going on in the next room.”

Crowley could have said that angels and demons did not technically have to listen through walls since their hearing was vastly superior to humans. But that would mean losing out on this top-tier embrace and she was not willing to even make an attempt that would result in that being in the outcome.

“Obedient!” a woman was saying loudly, sounding at the very edge of losing her temper. “Not a step out of line!”

Azirapahle’s face had that look she got when she found a priceless manuscript behind some boxes. Her fingers were now in Crowley’s hair, adjusting pins absently. Crowley was fighting the urge to just turn into a snake and wrapping herself around Aziraphale.

Did it count as a temptation to have an angel pressed against you and breathing heavily because she was listening to an author rambling about a verbal smackdown of epic proportions that got cut from the original manuscript?

Crowley was going to chalk that one up as ‘yes, a very tempted angel, good job.”

“Angel-“ Crowley began, only to be smacked on the back of the head by an irate angel.

“SHHH,” Aziraphale said, having perfected that very specific skill of librarians and teachers everywhere. “Listen, it’s Miss Austen! I’ve been trying to get her to drop hints about her new book for months now but she’s as quiet as a country mouse!”

Crowley made a small sound in the back of her throat, simultaneously wishing to drop off the face of the Earth and thanking Miss Austen for the chance to have her personal space so thoroughly invaded by the angel.

“Do Not Ruin This For Me,” Azirphale ordered, sounding more like the Guardian of Eden than she ever had been when she’d actually had that job.

“Meek,” said Austen in the other room. “Obedient and passive and pretty with all the proper accomplishments, and that is just to be considered to be good enough for a gentleman to consider marrying her!”

“No,” she continued. “Not in this book.”

“Are you hearing this?” Aziraphale snarled, her eyes a raging storm, her hand wrapped around Crowley and the other pressing against her shoulder blades. The angel was grinning, all teeth, as if what she was hearing was more delicious than any cream-topped dessert could ever be.

“Yes, angel,” Crowley managed, trying to discard the fact that Aziraphale was making delighted humming sounds that could not be heard by human ears and also stroking her back absentmindedly as Austen went on a rant about the violence men so casually heaped on women, destroying their lives in a single evening or with a single decision.

“Fight them,” Aziraphale was breathing. “Show them that ladies don’t have to just accept all of this…this tyranny-“

At that moment in time, Crowley knew, Azirapahle would have struck down God Herself had She tried to interrupt this moment.

“I don’t think that she’ll need a miracle for her books to be remembered for the rest of time,” Crowley said. She was rewarded with a look of such intense passion that she almost collapsed on the spot.

The minutes trickled by as Aziraphale continued listening to what was happening in the room next door and Crowley felt their heartbeats trying to beat in unison.

The door to their room was very much locked, no one had been murdered yet and miss Austen kept talking to her sister about word choices and how a character with a secret is good to have around in a story. Aziraphale's hands had somehow would up on the back of Crowley's neck, cool and steady.

"What if they elope?" Cassandra was saying. "What if they go away together and defy everyone?"

Aziraphale had started shivering, allowing Crowley to finally wrap herself around her softer form.

"They might regret that life choice," Austen replied. "Eventually. But...perhaps in the moment, it would be worth it."

"Make them kiss," Cassandra added, clearly delighted. "Kissing or I will revolt."

"If you distract our guests next time when they try to bring up finding me a suitor," Jane said. "I will write them getting married."

"Agreed," Cassandra said.

Then there was the scratch of furniture on wood as the ladies stood up and the slam of a door as they left, most likely to go search for the mulled wine.

Crowley breathed in and out again, preparing herself for Aziraphale to step away and make fussy sounds while brushing the wrinkles out of her gown with a miracle or two.

Aziraphale smelled like lavender soap, Madeira wine and melted butter. Crowley breathed in the scent, grabbing fistfuls of Aziraphale's dress as the angel continued to hold her close.

There were too many layers in between them. Shifts, corsets, petticoats and the dresses.

At times like these, Crowley missed the toga.

It had been airy and non-confining, unlike what they were wearing now.

She wrapped her legs around Aziraphale's waist and grinned, pressing her back against the wall so that she’d stay up.

Aziraphale, too giddy to remember to be reluctant, grinned back.

It was Crowley who leaned in close and kissed Aziraphale. It was certainly not the first kiss that they’d shared over the years, but most of the other ones had been the sort that you exchange when you meet a friend.

Aziraphale kissed her back with a boldness that made Crowley’s spine tingle.

Crowley’s hair fell down her back like a waterfall as every single pin that had held it in place vanished into thin air, alongside the goose grease. Even the braids unravelled themselves.

Aziraphale’s hips pressed against Crowley as Crowley deepened the kiss, crushing her mouth against Aziraphale’s mouth. They lost all sense of time, wrapped up in each other.

Crowley kissed and bit the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s chest and shoulders as the angel’s hands wandered all of Crowley’s body.

The fire in the hearth burned lower and the sounds of dancing feet and gossip was fading.

Crowley threw her shaded glasses in the direction of the side-table, missing by quite a lot. She pulled away from Aziraphale, unhooking her legs from her waist and standing as the sounds of footsteps on the stairs became louder.

Everyone was leaving as dawn approached.

Good.

“Listen,” she told Aziraphale. “I’m going to raise your skirts, alright?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, flushing down to her toes. “Yes. Good. Uh, carry on, dear.”

Crowley gathered the material in her hands.

“And then I’m going to-“

There was a knock on the door. A forceful one.

Crowley dropped the material with a frustrated sigh.

“Hold on-“ Crowley shouted at the door. Or more accurately, at the humans on the other side of the door. “We’re busy!”

“I told you that I heard someone in there!” a voice said as the door was unlocked and promptly kicked it open.

Aziraphale did the only sensible thing in the situation and took hold of the back of Crowley’s head and pushed so that her face became intimately acquainted with Aziraphale’s chest.

“As you can see,” Aziraphale said with great dignity. “We are busy.”

“Oh,” said Cassandra Austen, blinking. “I see.”

“I hope you enjoyed the ball, Miss Austen?” Aziraphale continued, her polite tone not wavering one bit.

“Very much,” Cassandra said. “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Fell.”

“Likewise,” Aziraphale said, nodding.

“Lgkhe,” Crowley said, feeling dazed.

“There is some good mulled wine downstairs,” Cassandra continued, looking at the maid that had accompanied her, who had turned scarlet. “Is that not so?”

“It’s delicious,” said Jane Austen, coming to a halt in the doorway beside her sister. The wine in her glass spilled onto the floor as she took in the scene with an expression of genuine delight. “Why are you interrupting the ladies, Cassandra?”

“I did not intend to-“ Cassandra began, blushing.

“Let’s leave them to enjoy their evening,” Jane continued, gesturing for her sister and the maid to continue their walk. “It was a pleasure to meet you-“

“Mrs. Crowley,” Crowley managed as Jane winked at Aziraphale, who just looked pleased with herself.

The door closed with a soft thud after the Austen sisters had waved goodbye.

Aziraphale sat back down on the settee, taking hold of her glass of wine and downing the rest of it. Her face had become a delightful shade of pink and her hands would not stay still in her lap.

“We could go downstairs for a glass of mulled wine-“ Aziraphale began. “If you want-“

But Crowley had taken hold of her skirts again.

The lock on the door made a fearsome sound as Crowley decided that one more demonic miracle for the evening would be very much justified.

“Do you want to keep going?” Crowley asked.

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale breathed out, raising the skirt of her dress and the petticoats.

Crowley went down to her knees, tracing the soft material of Aziraphale’s soft stockings before kissing the ample thighs.

Aziraphale’s breath hitched when Crowley grabbed her hips and moved her mouth higher up.

_ The taste of perfectly ripe mango when you’ve been stranded on a desert island. _

_The scent of fresh grass on a warm spring day. _

_The sounds of a masterful full-length violin concert by musicians in their prime._

Crowley doubled her efforts as eyes began appearing all over Aziraphale’s body and gold blood visibly racing through her veins beneath the skin.

“We’ll,” Aziraphale breathed, then laughed as black smoke began to rise from where her hands were gripping the now partially soaked and creaking settee. “We’ll damage the furniture!”

“Then let’s destroy it!” Crowley said, blackened feathers dragging across the worn rug and the scarred and damaged eyes on her body fluttering open.

_The vicious joy of a hard-earned fight, the scent of gunpowder and salt still in the air._

_The fit of a tailored suit with all the trimmings._

_The smoothest, darkest coffee in a porcelain cup on a cold winter morning._

Aziraphale dragged her closer for a scorching kiss, her fingers lost in Crowley’s hair for a long while.

Crowley traced the intact halo with her black claws and did not burn.

They pressed their foreheads together and the ashes in the hearth tried to turn into diamonds.

_The utter stillness before a thunder storm._

_Clotted cream in those dainty little bowls._

_A solid 15 hours of sleep in the best bed ever made by human hands._

When they broke apart, their breathing was shallow and their hair was a mess.

Crowley scraped back her hair, pinning it in place as Aziraphale made fussy little sounds as she miracled her skirts and dress clean.

“Well,” Crowley said, looking at the settee as Aziraphale adjusted her neckline. “That settee is done for.”

Aziraphale blinked, still a bit out of it.

The settee was a mess of dirty cloth and feathers from ripped pillows. The wooden frame had remembered that it had once been a part of a tree and had come alive, sprouting leaves.

“We could leave it like that,” Crowley suggested. “It will be a conversation piece.”

“You mean that people will look at it and say: ‘What in Heaven is that?’” Aziraphale asked. “No, no. That won’t do.”

She patted the settee, miracling it clean and adding sturdy tartan pillow covers but allowing the wood to just keep growing. She shrugged when Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Oh Lord, heal this settee,” Crowley said, noting that a cream blanket had been added on top of the pillows.

“Sush,” Aziraphale said fondly. “Let’s hurry downstairs and see if they’ve still got some mulled wine for us.”

Then she took Crowley’s arm, already dragging her out of the room with a bright smile on her face.

“I don’t have bruises all over my neck, do I?” Aziraphale asked as they made their way down the stairs.

“You do,” Crowley answered, eying them. “A few bite marks too.”

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale said. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“Right,” Crowley said, unable to process this in any way. “Let’s go get some of that wine and get going, angel.”

There was indeed mulled wine.

Later on, there was a very fine black carriage that went missing, never to be found again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the third chapter has a time skip to modern times, set just after the Apocalypse has been averted.

It was a crisp autumn evening when Crowley spotted Aziraphale drinking cocoa in the park. Crowley had spent most of the morning mislabeling scented candles in various expensive-looking stores and getting odd looks from various clients as she swanned around in her dress.

The icy rain that had greeted her when she’d woken up had already caused a great deal of inconvenience and the chill lingered in the air.

Aziraphale appeared to have had the same idea, clearly wearing at least two petticoats underneath her dress. Crowley had no doubt that there was a corset and a shift somewhere in the mix too.

“Good morning, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, pulling at her gloves while Crowley bought a cup of espresso. The book bag slung over her shoulders was open, revealing an annotated copy of Pride and Prejudice.

“Angel,” Crowley replied. “You look very fancy today.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, adjusting her bonnet. “Felt it was time for a little change. And it does fit the occasion.”

The Pride and Prejudice marathon was in a little less than an hour, and they had the best seats in the house. They had plenty of time to wander around before Crowley would drive them to the movie theater.

“Layers,” Crowley said, nodding in understanding and patting her own skirts. “They’re just warmer than jeans.”

They sat down on a nearby bench, which was still miraculously dry.

Crowley sipped her espresso as Aziraphale read her book, watching the emotions run across Aziraphale’s face and often camp there. The vicious joy on her face as she turned the pages was causing the clouds above them to dissolve and everyone in the park felt their spirits rise as they passed by.

They stood up after a while and Aziraphale put her book back into the bag with a pleased expression on her face. Crowley adjusted her glasses, looking around.

“You look very rakish,” Aziraphale said, linking their arms as she sipped her cocoa.

“It’s the cravat,” Crowley said with a shrug and patted the snake-in that she’d added as a last-minute thing. “And it fits the occasion, as you said. I’ve got our tickets.”

“Everyone likes a rake,” Aziraphale said, wrapping a cream shawl around her neck that Crowley had not seen in centuries. But then again, the blue muslin dress was a very familiar one, even if Aziraphale was also wearing some modest buttoned short jacket over it. “It’s that hint of danger and artful dishevelment.”

“I thought it was their charm,” Crowley said, bopping her paper cup against Aziraphale’s re-usable one.

“Hm,” Aziraphale said, sipping her cocoa. “Maybe a little bit.”

“Society is full of rules and there is this person that doesn’t care and flirts with you at a ball,” Crowley said, grinning. “Very inappropriate.”

“I do have some fond memories,” Aziraphale said, pressing her fingers against Crowley’s bicep.

“Do you?” Crowley asked with a wink.

“I do,” Aziraphale replied as they joined the queue outside the theatre. It was a sea of bonnets and top hats, so that they fit right in.

They waited for a while as even more people gathered and it began to rain.

Aziraphale found a vintage cream umbrella in her bag and opened it to shield them both. There was no way in either Heaven or Hell that the umbrella would have physically occupied any space inside the book bag. But Aziraphale had clearly managed to make it through some part of the Sound of Music, after all.

Still, it was as a strange comfort to have averted the Apocalypse, standing under an umbrella held by an angel while they both wore outfits that had not seen the light of day in centuries.

But Aziraphale was humming an old tune as they hurried inside and sat down with snacks piled in Aziraphale’s lap. The grin on Aziraphale’s face was a dangerous one, full of vicious enjoyment as Elizabeth Bennet verbally shredded Fitzwilliam’s Darcy’s soul and then threw it to the wind.

When Crowley had first read the scene, she’d tried not to feel demoralized.

But now, seeing Aziraphale wiggling happily in place as the movie rolled, she felt herself relax. After all, this was simply a case of Aziraphale loving a literary smackdown.

Aziraphale’s hand gripped Crowley’s as Elizabeth told him that he was an arrogant and selfish man and she’d never marry him. Aziraphale’s other hand was lapping on her thigh, words in modified Morse code that Crowley barely caught but appeared to be snatches of delighted commentary and exited rambling about the sheer influence Austen had on modern literature all in a big jumble of words.

Of course, it was so elegantly put that it could have been the draft of a PhD thesis.

“Your family is really horrible but I like you,” Crowley whispered in Aziraphale’s ear as the credits of the 2005 adaption rolled.

“Let me change my ways so that we can be together,” Aziraphale replied, sipping tea out of a tartan thermos she’d smuggled into the building.

“That’s a good plan,” Crowley said, taking up as much place as possible in her chair. She took the tartan thermos out of Aziraphale’s hand and sipped some of the tea.

“It’s the best plan,” Aziraphale said as the Pride and Prejudice TV series began. “It really is.”


End file.
